Meet the BatBros
by Dovahtiink
Summary: Dick goes on strike against gravity, Jason laments the existence of Highlight magazines, Tim forgets a Very Important Mission , and Damian knows exactly where babies come from.
1. Man I Hate These Vigilante Oneliners

**Meet the BatBros ;)**

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**Also known as, "THEY'RE NOT JUST REPLACEMENTS"**

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**Aka I'm tired but-it-could-be-fun-tho**

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**The Original**

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"Oh, C'MON! How is that even possible, man!?"

The lowlife goon was one of many, and like many of the easy-hire lowlifes The Riddler usually hired with his non-existent bank account, this one seemed to have a twinkie addiction.

"You know, if you spent a little less time on the couch watching the Gotham Knights play the Mets and a little more time in those few hours of sunlight the city gets, you'd be able to run a mile without having to contribute so much to the ground-zone of the water cycle. Also you might get a better job that involves less of – THIS!"

The vigilante's words were punctuated by a sudden flying twist in the air, the momentum turning his body in a graceful arc that landed a solid foot in the goon's jaw, knocking him back onto a well-cushioned rear. Nightwing grinned cheekily and gave his ecrisma sticks a twirl before launching into a set of flips and aerials that somehow made him dodge every single bullet the 'backup' shot his way.

"WHY AREN'T YOU OBEYING THE LAWS OF PHYSICS!? JUST HOLD STILL!" one of the goons screamed at him, making the acrobat let out one of his fear-inducing creepy laughs.

"That's where the vigilante part comes in! There are just some laws we weren't quite meant to follooooooooooow…"

Nightwing's voice faded when he brought out his grappling hook and shot away into the night, the shadows swallowing him in a way that also should not have been entirely possible, leaving the goons with empty clips and groans. The Riddler may not have been quite as…psychopathic as some of the other major villains and crime bosses Gotham had to offer, but he certainly wouldn't be pleased when they returned with yet another failed target elimination.

Ah, well. At least there was time for a quick stop at the twenty-four hour Quick Mart that sold those hot jelly donuts.


	2. This Young Man Likely Needed Discipline

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**Little Red Riding Hood**

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_**City Heights Medical – **_

_**3:47 AM**_

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When Marla Withers fell out of bed that night and felt like she'd 'done her hip a right nasty knock,' she had expected the short trip to the ER to go as planned. You know, just as weird as any nighttime visit to a hospital would be – empty parking lots illuminated by bright white lights, halls that stretched long and depressingly clean, waiting rooms that held maybe the latest drug addict come in off the streets with too much of the good stuff in his system…

Certainly not _him…_with _that. _

Judging by the weird red helmet the man wore, Marla correctly guessed he was one of the city's very own vigilantes, despite the fact that besides the red helmet, his clothes looked like something you'd find on a wanna-be biker with mommy issues and a bad attitude. What she found more disconcerting than his lack of identity, however, was the ridiculous amount of guns and knives arrayed on his person, all in plain sight.

Oh, that and what seemed to be a metal pipe impaled in his left shoulder and getting blood all over the nice little blue cushioned chairs in the waiting room.

Despite the fact that there was literally no one else in the ER besides Marla and Helmet Guy, the receptionist was busy on the phone making calls to who knows where. After around ten minutes, Red Helmet casually leaned back a little in his chair (adjusting his pipe carefully in the process) and propped his booted feet on the magazine-strewn coffee table before them.

Marla's eyes widened a bit behind her spectacles, but other than that small motion she decided it was wise to just keep at her knitting, ignoring both the strange man and the mild pain in her hip which was almost definitely worse than it looked. Or felt. She could be dying right now for all she'd know.

Another ten minutes passed, the Red Helmet-guy growing more agitated than ever. He got to his feet with a groan and began pacing, shaking his head irritably and muttering under his breath.

He paused and looked over at her, as though noticing her for the first time.

Marla froze.

"It's ridiculous, isn't it?" The Red helmet-guy spoke suddenly, his voice gruff but definitely younger than she'd expected. "All I asked, ALL, I, ASKED, was for a prescription for painkillers and a new suture kit because my old one has Clayface's guts…or clay…or whatever…on it. I don't even need to see a doctor! I just need some freakin' pills and a needle! Instead I'm stuck here with this stupid pipe in my stupid shoulder in a stupid room with Granny from Beverly Hills and nothing but Highlight magazines to read! I mean, WHAT WOULD IT TAKE TO GET SOME DECENT BOOKS IN HERE, LIKE DICKENS OR – OR BROMSFIELD!?"

Exasperated, the Red Helmet-guy collapsed back into his chair and let out a yelp when the movement jarred his wound. The initial surprise over, Marla went back to her knitting. She was eighty-nine years old, for chrissakes. She'd be dying soon anyway.

"Young man," she began, looking up at him over her spectacles and tightening her mouth into severe line. "are you one of those clinically insane sorts, or are you just annoying?"

The vigilante stared back at her, and she smugly imagined his mouth agape behind that ridiculous helmet/mask thingy.

"….I don't know. Probably both, I guess."


	3. Master Tim, I Have No Words

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**The Replacement after the Replacement**

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Alfred was just finishing up the breakfast dishes when young Tim came stumbling in, the bags under his eyes nearly as dark as the mop of hair sticking up in every direction. His 'Gotham Elementary' shirt, which he had yet to actually grow out of due to the fact that he'd tucked his knees up under it so many times it had stretched, was slipping on one shoulder, adding to the disheveled appearance. The teen stopped just inside the doorway, his vacant gaze drifting over to the coffee pot.

The butler later tried to forget the fact that he'd literally seen the boy's pupils dilate at the sight of the pleasant wisp of steam that wafted from the extraordinarily strong brew.

"Your…_tankard, _is right over there, Master Tim." The Butler instructed promptly, nodding toward the massive coffee cup he had so accurately described. The sheer size of the cup was not the only reason it was Tim's favorite – no, it was the fact that it was black and covered in green computer code that translated to elite math formulas categorized alphabetically by their creators, along with a short biography of each. Solving each one seemed to help clear his head in the morning along with the contents of the cup and help prepare him for the dreaded daylight hours.

Alfred eyed his young charge as the boy sat at the kitchen table, downing the coffee in five minutes flat, blistering hot. He started to get up and walk over to the coffee pot for trip 2/5, when he tripped and stopped, squinting up at the ceiling. Alfred raised an eyebrow, waiting for the moment to pass, and was rewarded with an 'aha!' look.

"Alfred!"

"Yes, Master Tim?"

"I think I have a mission I was supposed to do today…but I don't know what it is."

"That sounds incredibly counterproductive, sir."

After all, who was he to tell the young master that the 'mission' was the lad's own birthday? Perhaps next time the Wayne family would listen to him when he next lectured them on the effects of sleep deprivation on memory.

Sure.

When in the daytime, bats fly.


	4. Barbara, I Need Help

**Bruce's True Bat-Brat**

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"You see, Dami, when a man and a woman love each other VERY much…"

"Grayson, stop. Stop this nonsense right now."

"Look, I know this makes you uncomfortable Little D, but Bruce is suspiciously offworld, and after what you just saw when he let JASON of all people baby – I mean, uh…er…"

"Careful, Grayson. Pennyworth did not find all my knives, I assure you."

"…noted. But seriously, that movie was R-rated! You should never have watched that…"

"Tt. I have seen far more blood and violence than that ridiculous movie of supposed 'horror' could ever hope to picture on a screen."

"…that's…that's not…"

"Grayson, I was trained under the tutelage of the world's most leading authority on every form of martial arts and assassination there is, and among those, the art of seduction and subterfuge was priority on Wednesdays."

"Damian that's not – wait, WHAT?"

"I assure you, I am already fully aware that human infants are produced in mass by the S.T.O.R.K Institution and only in rare cases such as my own is the DNA specially altered to create the perfect genetic code that also is specifically tailored to make present in the infant the preferred genes of both parents' best attributes."

"…."

". .. . "

"I've got to make a quick call."

Damian huffed and strode off, faintly hearing his older sibling dial that ridiculous redhead he had sunk to the level of enough to be friends with (really, Grayson deserved far better than the likes of the people he typically surrounded himself with, present company excluded, of course), and begin yelling frantically something about the birds and the bees were one thing but explaining the bats and the bees was going to be worse than talking the joker into taking Prozac.

Tt.

Grayson was an idiot to believe he really didn't know all the biological workings of the human body.

Still, it had been rather amusing to see how many different expressions the oldest brother could fit on his face in the span of a second.

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**Thanks for reading everyone! :D :D :D If you can't tell, I literally can't get enough of these sibling dynamics mwhahahahhaha**

**Also**

**Damian**

_**BOI**_


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